


and look in, again, on happiness

by ruche



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: M/M, Possibly Unrequited Love, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:35:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23330083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruche/pseuds/ruche
Summary: “It’s as you said,” he begins stiltedly, “I am the son of a king… My father married for love, yes, but only considering his obligations were… secured.”“The crest baby,” Sylvain says.Dimitri blushes. “Yes.”Or, conversations Dimitri and Felix have with Sylvain instead of each other.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I meant this to be dmfx-centric and Sylvain is just being a bro, but Sylvain has a way of being somewhat in love with his friends regardless of my biases so I tagged for ot3. Dmfx biases still present though, but maybe it’s an interesting dynamic!

Sylvain has historically persuaded Dimitri to do unseemly things. He considers this his own special service to the crown, in fact.

Dimitri is almost thirteen years old— shorter, fairer, somehow still more sturdy than Sylvain— and he rode all the way to Gautier without much rest, by the looks of it. One of his mentors is with him, meaning to appraise the situation near the border, to see if Gautier militias are up to task. He’s the unbearably staunch knightly type, of course.

Perhaps Dimitri was meant to go with him— ah, to be a king in training— but Sylvain wasn’t about to let the day run him any more ragged. At such times his silver tongue comes in handy.

He hadn’t seen the kid in months, anyway, and playing that up made Dimitri give in pretty fast. It’s for his own benefit. Sylvain filches a whole tray of snacks from the kitchen despite Dimitri’s protests, has the maids make them some hot cocoa, and shepherds Dimitri and their spoils all the way up to his own room. Dimitri watches him lock the door with his eyebrows cutely furrowed above his entirely guileless eyes.

Sylvain hands him a mug and ration of sweet buns as if they’re sharing a conspiracy. Dimitri’s startled expression suggests as much, but Sylvain only feels relief as he sinks into one of the chairs by his desk. “Much better, huh,” he remarks, taking one sophisticated sip and eying the prince where he sits.

He’s slow to nod back. The last bits of snow have melted off his hair, at least. “Yes, thank you, Sylvain.”

“You can take off your riding gloves, Your Highness.”

Doubtless he’s gotten plenty of talks about how he isn’t a child anymore, but the worn soles of his boots still don’t quite reach the floor from the antique chair. He looks at Sylvain as if seeking permission before blowing hesitant puffs of air over his cocoa.

“Relax,” Sylvain coaxes. “That door is locked for a reason, my friend.”

That reason is six feet tall and growing out a downright embarrassing mullet at present, likely skulking around his usual haunts. He’s made a point to avoid such occasions, even in a familial capacity. Which suits Sylvain just fine.

When Dimitri prompts, “Oh?”, Sylvain is already laughing a little into his hand and moving right along.

“Yep,” he chirps. “Sweet, sweet privacy. Though, ah, I guess it doesn’t _always_ do me much good…”

Dimitri leans forward in his seat, attention unwavering on one spot. Sylvain wishes it wasn’t his face, just as Dimitri looks troubled as a kicked puppy.

“Sylvain?”

“Oh, I’m just thinking of when the gardener’s daughter had to sneak out the window.”

“ _Sylvain!_ ”

Troubled becomes horrified. Sylvain’s bedchamber is decidedly not on the first floor of Castle Gautier. “It was such trouble to get her in here, too,” Sylvain adds, and then, fearing for the cup in Dimitri’s tense grasp, hastily continues, “I’m just kidding! Kidding! All ladies enter and exit only through the door to the hall Your Highness, I swear.”

“I should certainly hope so,” Dimitri replies after a beat. At least there’s a hint of a smile to it, promptly obscured by another sweet bun. Sylvain considers it a small win. “But… I see you’ve still got that skirt-chasing habit, regardless.”

“Aw, come on. I can’t just stop, Your Highness,” Sylvain huffs, and leans back in his chair. “But enough about me, how’ve you been?”

“Very well,” Dimitri says, his feet fidgeting slightly. He tucks a strand of blond behind his ear. “Mostly. Oh, that is, I mean… there was something I wanted to ask, on the subject of-- of--”

Sylvain raises his eyebrows. “Girls?”

“No,” Dimitri answers. “Well… no. Ah, you must know I don’t approve of your conduct.”

“Oh, I know.”

Dimitri’s expression pinches at his flippancy, and for a moment, Sylvain thinks he may have incurred his temper, which is never all that terrifying a prospect. Still, it’s hard to get an encouraging smile onto his face in time, but Dimitri untenses regardless, too tired to attempt a full scolding. Seiros bless his heart.

“But…” Dimitri puts his hand to his mouth. His fairytale blond locks flutter as he tilts his head. “What do you do when someone… is fond of you, Sylvain?”

This is diverting from the reproach he was expecting. Into less frequent but still well-trodden territory-- Dimitri’s curiosity, a careful, fragile thing. Sylvain has to think about it. But not for very long.

“Well… can’t think of anyone all that fond of me, Your Highness,” he laughs, though it even strikes him as pathetic. Ignoring that, he crosses his legs and smiles. “Why do you ask?”

Dimitri’s mouth twists like he’s chewing on the words before speaking them. “I think…. Well, it’s possible someone may have… certain affections for me?”

Sylvain’s smile falters. Oh, _Seiros_ , so he has to be the one to give Dimitri this talk.

Sylvain knows this bitterness like the back of his hand, but it’s surprisingly painful to pass it on. To sweet, naive Dimitri of all people, who would rather see himself hurt than to doubt polite company. It’s like he can’t help it. Sylvain scruffs his own hair, regards the prince sympathetically. It’s not something that _should_ matter so much-- but anyone important knows that Dimitri’s heart remains soft as snow, despite his nasty temper.

He has to know at some point. Sylvain gestures at him with an awkward laugh. “Well, you are the _prince_ , y’know, and you’re getting to that age. Girls are going to be batting their eyelashes, crowding you, after your crest babies—”

“It’s not like that,” Dimitri cuts in, surprising him. He sounds so sure of himself. “That’s not the case with this person. Status is no concern.”

“Oh.” Sylvain frowns. “Who is it?”

This is what makes Dimitri clam up. His shoulders hike beneath his capelet and he looks aside, nervous and solemn in equal measure. The lamplight does little to hide his blush. He clears his throat. “Well— I don’t know much about matters of this nature, and this is only my foolish speculation, but I still feel like I would be betraying— this person if I told you.”

With that, Dimitri eats another sweet bun. Sylvain stares. A good guess begins to scratch at his skull. “Alright then,” he allows, leaning back in his seat. “In that case, what matters is how you feel about them, right?”

Dimitri politely swallows the last of his third or fourth pilfered snack, then stares down at his hot cocoa for a moment longer. “It’s as you said,” he begins stiltedly, “I am the son of a king… My father married for love, yes, but only considering his obligations were… secured.”

“The crest baby,” Sylvain says.

Dimitri blushes. “Yes.”

Sylvain knows this song and dance very well, too, but he continues, “So, you can’t make your own decisions because you’re going to be king.”

Dimitri pauses. “Some decisions, no.” He takes another sip of cocoa. “It’s just how it is. I don’t… It's not something I can take lightly. Right?”

“Well, you _could._ ”

“I’d rather not.”

“I see,” Sylvain replies. He sets his cheek on an upheld hand and gives Dimitri another winning smile. “You know, Your Highness, some people think Loog and Kyphon were lovers.”

Dimitri spits out his drink. It sprays. His wide, guileless eyes squeeze shut, he sputters and chokes, and Sylvain is so very fond of him. _So that’s it,_ he thinks.

"All good?"

The prince stammers through all the hacking, hand flying to his throat. “I’m— my apologies— that was--”

“It’s alright! Mitya, it’s fine, I’m not going to tell anyone,” Sylvain chirps, passing over an embroidered handkerchief some girl left in his room last week. “Though I should; that was pretty funny.”

“ _Sylvain_ ,” Dimitri whines. “Forget about that. What about the King of Lions?”

“Right, sworn friends Loog and Kyphon,” Sylvain says, watching Dimitri’s expression all too keenly. In the back of his mind, he thinks himself a real bastard for taking pleasure in the prince’s clear, _pertinent_ discomfort, but it’s _cute_. “Or could they be _more_? I met this baron’s daughter who told me all about it. It’s a pretty compelling theory. The tales are one thing, but-- hey, I hear some original copies are kept at Blaiddyd, so maybe you could ask His Majesty if we could see their actual private correspondences sometime?”

“Um,” Dimitri says. “Why.”

“Well... in the classical extended canon, there’s no pair that embodies devotion quite like Loog and Kyphon,” Sylvain says with a flourish of the hand. Already these are fine stories to pass the time with, but damn if this interpretation doesn’t make them high romance. Unachievable romance, fitting for a courageous and just hero king. Principled, just like Dimitri and Felix and Ingrid love so much.

“In older translations, apparently one of the words for ‘sworn friend’ can more accurately translate to ‘life partner’. Plus... you know that speech Sir Kyphon gives before the griffon quest? The one that makes Ingrid cry? ‘My heart doth pound forever in his service, that this land should know all his righteous strength and half his tenderness as I’,” Sylvain recites, with the dramatic, solemn intonation it deserves. “ _Tenderness._ That’s some rosy, loving diction right there. He’s not even king yet, Dimitri. A _little_ homoerotic, wouldn’t you say.”

Sylvain stops. Dimitri seems to be processing, caught between refute and acknowledgement that nothing Sylvain has said is technically wrong. So Sylvain proceeds cheerily. “Then there’s that one part in _The Sword of Kyphon_ where it’s mentioned they share a tent nightly--”

“Well--” Dimitri cuts in, so quickly it’s hoarse and he has to clear his throat, “that is-- because it’s _cold_.”

“Have a little imagination, Dimitri.”

“This is historical revisionism,” the prince bristles, crossing his arms. “Charming, but King Loog did take a wife--”

“And we are all so glad he did,” Sylvain says, gesturing at Dimitri, “but the letters, right. Lady Angeline is a bit of a history buff like her father, and she said that in the copies she’s read, they’d even called each other things like ‘dearest one’ and ‘my beloved’.”

“Beloved...” Dimitri repeats dumbly. He scratches at his face. It’s pink. “Sylvain, is this a weird joke?”

“Cross my heart, that’s what she told me,” Sylvain says, patting a hand over his chest. “And… I guess my romantic heart ran away with the idea. Quintessential nobles, forbidden love… We’ll never know for sure how it really was.” A shrug. “But, I mean, he’s the King of Lions; if he wanted to be sleeping with his sworn knight behind the scenes, he would and could.”

His jaw feels tight, all wrong when he laughs, gesturing with both hands. “I mean... chances are neither of us are going to marry someone we love… if we ever find such a person.” He coughs into a fist. “That’s why, if you do, it’s at least something to consider, Your Highness.”

"I suppose…” Dimitri says, giving his own arms a slow, lingering squeeze. Then, out of nowhere, and disproportionately alarmed: “Did you… did you mention any of this to Felix?” His eyes wander back to Sylvain. There’s the smallest, smallest hint of horror in them.

“No,” Sylvain says, and it’s the truth. He doesn’t take it that seriously. He’s only telling Dimitri for the moral to the story. Felix would take it seriously. In Felix’s hands, this information would be a lot. “I didn’t. But speaking of Felix…”

Dimitri jolts. Averts his gaze, suddenly slumping. “Felix.”

“Yeah, Felix,” Sylvain agrees. “Or… sorry, let’s finish talking about this mystery person with feelings for you, first, shall we?”

Dimitri’s mouth opens. His big blue eyes dart to the side. His mouth snaps shut. “Right.”

“You’re not happy about it,” Sylvain prompts.

Dimitri sighs. “Truly, the last thing I want to do is hurt him-- them-- this person. They are dear to me.”

Sylvain’s shriveled little heart pangs. A certain teary-eyed face appears in his mind. “Yeah.”

Dimitri fiddles with the cuff of his sleeve. “But I haven’t the faintest idea how to…”

“How to…?”

Nothing more comes. Dimitri raises his head and looks at him utterly helplessly.

“Listen, Your Highness,” Sylvain tries. “I was telling you about Kyphon and Loog’s secret relationship--”

Dimitri hums in distress.

“--because what if it _was_ possible?” Sylvain leans in, raising his eyebrows theatrically, smiling that supercharged, conspiratorial smile. Dimitri’s one of a rare, particular kind-- someone his smile comes easily for. “Even for a legendary king? What I mean is, if you _could_ return this person’s feelings, would you?”

“I--”

Sylvain shakes his head. “Don’t think about disappointing your father.”

“But--”

“Don’t think about the Kingdom, either.”

And, to his credit, he does think about it as requested. Leans back with his perfect posture and wrinkles his brow at Sylvain’s ceiling.

“I suppose I want… to make them happy, if I could,” he says, and ugh, that’s _closer_ , but still startlingly far off from the actual question. He’s about to really try to drill it into Dimitri’s thick skull, but then the prince is rubbing at it and opening his mouth so very bashfully. “But F-- um, this person, gets upset with me quite a lot.”

“Yeah,” Sylvain nods, tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair. Trying to suppress a smile. “Sounds troublesome. But you get that this person is just like that because he cares, right?”

Dimitri frowns something fierce. “Well, I wish he wouldn’t.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I hate seeing him storm off and cry,” Dimitri replies sulkily-- the most candid emotion he’s shown since dismounting his horse. He looks down at his small, powerful hands, mouth twisting again. “Is that ungrateful of me… This is so very complicated.”

Not all that complicated.

It’s quite possible Sylvain is alone in finding reassurance in Felix’s shouting and tears. Not that he likes it. But it certainly makes the world seem less shuttered and cold, that at least one of them can be so overbearingly honest. That Sylvain can remember Felix, breathlessly worried for him, and feel so--

Well, not like Dimitri, who soaks up negative energy like it’s a condition. Can’t see anyone in trouble without losing a miserable chunk of his heart to their cause. Better at hiding it than Felix. But far too many times Sylvain has seen them trapped in a terrifying empathy feedback loop just because one of them felt too much and the other was sure to follow.

They’re so good that way. Grasping their friend’s pain like their own. Caring so much it pierces armor and skin.

Dimitri will figure it out. He’s always been a little slow on the uptake.

“Mmm, sure is,” Sylvain replies, teasing, as if in deep thought. “And we haven’t even talked about kissing.”

Dimitri’s eyes go wide, but he will only let Sylvain mess with him so many times within one day. He reins it in admirably quick. “It’s only a confusing matter of the heart,” he says, near pouting. “I, for one, have no interest in-- that.”

If Sylvain is the only “romantic” in the world, something is seriously wrong. He ponders about the reading selection in Castles Fhirdiad and Fraldarius, seconds from rolling his eyes. When he was Dimitri’s age--

Girls were batting their eyelashes at him. He recovers from an unjust, visceral grimace and steers his attention back to Dimitri with a casual clap of his hands.

“Okay, let’s revisit that in a few years, then, Your Highness,” he suggests cheerfully. “That’s a lot of time to learn how to stop considering other people’s feelings _quite_ so much.”

A pause. Dimitri’s brow furrows. “That doesn’t sound very--”

“Just enough that you figure out what you want!” Sylvain continues. It occurs to him that he is inadvertently playing quite a mean joke on his young friend-- how to preach this when he doesn’t even know what he wants himself. At least he thought about it. At least he thought about it enough to realize he’d never have it. But Dimitri… Dimitri is different. A good guy. A ridiculous storybook prince.

“I can’t give you advice on what to do if you don’t know what you’re aiming for, now can I,” he reasons.

“I thought it was clear,” Dimitri says, shrinking in his seat. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

Sylvain can’t see a way out of that. Sylvain recalls--

A few years ago, spring in Fraldarius territory, Felix had rolled up his trousers and shown Sylvain a nasty bruise on his leg. _“Dima kicks in his sleep,”_ he’d complained, so very put-upon, and smiling.

In the face of this, Sylvain must be truthful.

“Okay, admittedly, I am not the authority on how to not hurt people who are actually, seriously invested,” he says flippantly. Matters of the heart? The heart has never meddled in his affairs, that’s for sure. “You’d have better luck with that than me. But, you know, everyone wants _something_ , Your Highness. Even when it hurts.” He shrugs. “Just wouldn’t want you to wake up one day and realize you missed out by playing it safe. You ought to follow your heart when you can; it’s a good one. Just take it from your good old friend Sylvain. I’m practically an expert at being a selfish bastard.”

Through that spiel, Dimitri holds his gaze with such sincere focus he thinks something must be sinking in. It’s gratifying, isn’t it, to wisen up a prince. But Dimitri always surprises him, somehow.

“Sylvain," he says, surprised, "you’re not selfish."

All the innocence of a little snow rabbit and the conviction of a king. Dimitri really is something. Sylvain almost believes him. 


	2. Chapter 2

“You shouldn’t call him that,” Felix pipes up, yanking a little too hard on the back of Sylvain’s coat. His face, caked with baby fat, is very solemn. “It’s weird. You’re friends.”

Sylvain is thrown off by the gravest stare a nine-year-old can give. Felix is quite good at it. And Sylvain’s never minded an interruption, but he has to think back a second. “What?”

“Dimitri,” Felix presses, crossing his arms. “He doesn’t like it when you call him ‘Your Highness’ and such.”

Ah. Sylvain shrugs. “Yeah, well. I’d rather my old man not whack my skull in for failing to show respect, you know?”

Felix doesn’t know. He wrinkles his nose in distaste. “It makes you sound like Ingrid.”

“Hey!” Sylvain laughs. But Felix hasn’t stopped looking at him, piercingly expectant, impossible to ignore, so he sets a hand on his shoulder. “I think Dimitri can put up with a little bowing and scraping, Felix. Look, I’m not a big fan of it either. It’s bizarre when adults are all _ahem hem, my lord_ at me, but it’s just something we have to put up with.”

Felix won’t accept Dimitri’s discomfort that easily, he knows, but he seems to consider it. Puffs his chest out, approximates maturity. Sylvain gives him a soft, surmising look. Then he wheels around, continuing their stroll around the Fraldarius estate with as loud a mouth as ever. “Well, you don’t have to worry about it so much. You’re a right and proper second son, so you can just be Felix. Thank the goddess, right?”

Felix’s little boots clunk after him. “What is _that_ supposed to mean?”

Sylvain laughs again, lacing his hands behind his head. He really does enjoy these visits, as long as Glenn can’t find him avoiding the training grounds. If it were up to him, he would have stayed inside playing chess with Felix, but Felix only sits still that long for one person.

“It means you can do whatever you want,” he answers. It’s a flighty reply but true enough. He shakes his head. “Guess it’s a moot point, if all you want is to be with His Highness.”

“Dimitri,” Felix says, trotting along just beside him. Sylvain sneaks a glance; his face is pink to the tips of his ears. He’s staring down at the frosty cobblestone, frowning. “Doesn’t everybody?”

“Are you sure you don’t need a scarf?” Sylvain asks.

“Don’t change the subject!” Felix exclaims. Funny, Felix is the one who steered them down this tangent-- Sylvain had just been telling a wonderful story about his last visit to Fhirdiad to begin with. But he doesn’t mind at all. Felix’s mouth is drawn in deep thought, so Sylvain will be accommodatingly quiet. He only shuts up for one person.

“You have to work really hard if you’re going to do whatever you want,” Felix decides after a while, resolute. Sylvain wonders how pointed that is-- just the kind of self-centered thing he would do-- before he realizes Felix is thinking hard about the future.

“I really do like that about you, Felix,” Sylvain says-- blurts, really, but doesn’t regret it. Gruff and bashful, Felix turns his head, but not before Sylvain spots the little smile on his face. Smiling brilliantly back, he nudges Felix at the arm.

“Anyway, will you listen? Where was I? Oh yeah. So this mangy cat kept yowling at us, and the count’s daughter was crying, so I told His Highness--”

“Do you ever think you shouldn’t call him that?”

Felix looks up from where he’s been decidedly _not_ focused, on the dirt, in the aftermath of one of his little spats with Dimitri. Not so little anymore. Or maybe they are. Sylvain can’t tell. He just knows he dislikes the way Felix sneers it-- _boar_. Can’t even joke about it being a pet name.

Felix’s sneer loses a few heat degrees. Just a few. “Your time could be better served than by doling out unwanted lessons on etiquette.”

Hm. Foolish of him, possibly, to challenge Felix on his turf. He follows Felix’s pointed glare to the weapons racks. He ignores this. Crosses out of the shade and into the sun, expression bright and wheedling.

“Nah, come on, that was just a question. A genuine question.”

Felix hefts his sword up and into a practice swing. His form is very good, bizarrely clean. It strikes Sylvain as vicious.

He ignores the uneasiness in his gut-- is becoming a champion at this, really-- and uses the serious voice he always has to take a hot second to work up to. “A genuine question.”

“No, I don’t ever think I shouldn’t call him that,” Felix replies, immediate now, and testy. Still no good at ignoring anything dangled in front of his face for too long. He frowns at his own words, then stances for another few practice swings. The total ease of it seems to invite more confidence into his voice. “It’s only the truth. You didn’t see it because you weren’t there.”

Sylvain scratches at his head. Is beginning to feel like an idiot, really, standing idle by a man who learned to sound unquestionable through sheer anger alone.

“Yeah, but… I see him now,” Sylvain reasons, placing a hand on his hip. “Boar, huh? He’s more… lovesick puppy for the professor.”

Felix scoffs. “Your perspective is as useless as ever.”

“It makes him sad, is all I’m saying.”

A pause. Felix straightens out to his full height, which is not all that significant.

“Are you just going to stand there?” he asks. Sylvain cannot discount the power of his glare. Or the sword tip raised inches from his chest. This is an invitation.

“Fine, fine.” He smiles with a little less gumption than usual, rubbing at the back of his head, and then stalks off. Returns with a practice lance, for the look of approval on Felix’s face, which is more like a cessation of glaring.

He lets Felix call the start of the spar. Lets him swing his sword even more viciously, barely blocking the first few and very much grateful for what natural advantages he does have. That the long staff of his lance has, rather. He’s fine staying on the defense, too occupied with reading Felix’s moves and Felix’s fierce expression both. The guy either does all his thinking with a sword in hand, or none at all.

Sylvain half-heartedly jabs his lance forward hoping to get some distance between them, but Felix is worked up, not in the mood to retreat. He scores a point with that opening, and Sylvain sighs, holding the lance aloft as he scratches at the back of his head. Makes a mental note of just how intense Felix gets after sustained interaction with their crown prince. It’s not really new information, but there’s something about feeling it in the force behind a sword, again and again, that really sticks.

Well, they all have their… ways.

“Again,” Felix snaps. “Pay attention this time.”

Sylvain’s wheedling, light-hearted smile feels pasted onto his face. “So, you’re thinking…”

Felix snorts. “I don’t need to think to beat you.”

No insult in that. Sylvain makes a face, anyway, and stances to attack first. Though it doesn’t last long. Felix blocks him beat for beat, each impact cracking the air. With that momentum, his crest activates on a brutal upward arc and knocks Sylvain’s training lance clear out of his grip.

He doesn’t have to look to gauge Felix’s frustration. He does, anyway. Unfortunately for both of them, this nasty, sweaty, red-faced glare is a look that he unfailingly interprets as _caring too much._

Maybe one day that won’t be true, but it is now. “Felix,” Sylvain sighs. And Felix stands aside. Stares at a fixed point that is not Sylvain, flips his sword restlessly in hand.

“Please. If it grieved him that much, he’d tell me to stop,” Felix mutters, quiet, like there’s something trapped in his throat. Hell if he’d waste training time to get rid of it. His stare returns to Sylvain with a force, boring into him and not quite seeing. “And the sorry animal never does. Why do you think that is? Because he knows I’m right.”

“Maybe because it’s hard to say no to you,” Sylvain suggests, hand on hip, too chipper, too truthful.

Felix looks more taken aback by this than anything else he’s tried. Though it doesn’t last long.

“If that’s true, then pick up your weapon and shut your mouth.”

Well, it is true.


End file.
